SPEC, TAU
by KCS
Summary: A retelling of the Doyle story The Speckled Band, but NOT just a rewrite of the original. Takes place in my TrekAUverse, where Holmes is a Vulcan and Watson a full Empath. First in the series. Full summary and disclaimer inside.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: _The Speckled Band, TrekAUverse_  
**Fandom**: Sherlock Holmes, with a Star Trek TOS twist  
**Characters**: Holmes, Watson  
**Rating**: K+  
**Warnings**: basic spoilers for Trek-related things such as Vulcans, and spoilers for various Holmes stories  
**Summary**: Takes place in my AU, where Holmes is a Vulcan and Watson a full empath (as seen in the TOS episode _The Empath_). To avoid taking up space inside the chapter in narrative, please read my story _Whatever Remains _to find out why Vulcan!Holmes is on Earth in the Victorian period. This is the first in a series of Canon short story rewrites, focusing on proving that Holmes really was a Vulcan and Watson an empath, so let's play the game here, people. :) First up: _The Speckled Band_, since it's the most famous of the Holmes short stories. Please note that I am NOT just copy-and-pasting Doyle in these; I'm only keeping the bare bones of the plot the same and developing an entirely new style of story. Any directly quoted material (max. 15% of the total fic) is noted. I am not Doyle, and I am not trying to write this as Doyle. Meant to be a light-hearted, slightly tongue-in-cheek AU but still believable as the Holmes and Watson we love.  
**A/N: **Am I totally on crack, or is anyone really as interested in this as I am? Feedback is welcomed and appreciated, especially if you have requests for stories to be rewritten or details you want to point out for me to cover.  
**Disclaimer**: Star Trek belongs to Paramount and Gene Roddenberry. Holmes and Watson are public domain and originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Their TrekverseAU characteristics are entirely mine, as is this not-quite-a-crossover universe. Please ask if you're wanting to play in my sandbox.

* * *

In looking over my notes from the many cases I have spent in the company of the world's first and finest private consulting detective, I have come to the decision that several of these adventures may, someday, be understood by generations in our far distant future; and that as such, I alone bear the responsibility to leave an accurate, if somewhat incredible, chronicle of these occurrences. My readers will no doubt know to whom I am referring when I mention the name of Sherlock Holmes; but no one knows, or shall know for decades to come, to _what_ I am referring when I mention my friend's singular abilities and gifts.

Allegations have before been made upon my story-telling accuracy, due to deliberate misconstruing of events and slight mix-ups of dates and names; but these mistakes were all done for a purpose, for to be clear in every detail due to Holmes's perfect memory might divulge hints of what Sherlock Holmes and I truly were, rather than what the world believed us to be. The world is not yet prepared for the truth, and yet I feel that I must at least leave a written account of that truth for history's sake, even if I shall never know who will read it.

It lies with me now, therefore, to leave an account of some of my exploits in the company of that most remarkable of individuals, in the hope that the world of far-tomorrow may at last be able to understand the truth, rather than the carefully-edited version which I have before offered to the public.

One of the most memorable cases of our careers occurred in early spring of 1883 – April, to be exact – and not many months after the incredible revelation given to me by my friend Sherlock Holmes in response to the unveiling of my own, no less incredible, personal secret. For a few weeks following the slightly inconceivable announcements we had divulged to each other, our relations were, understandably, somewhat strained. However, as the awkwardness wore away, so did our formerly well-constructed barriers, and in a very short time I found myself understanding Mr. Sherlock Holmes better than I had ever understood an individual before.

He, in his turn, though he retained that calm and almost entirely expressionless exterior at most times, occasionally relaxed his guard enough to discuss matters with me which would of course be impossible to do with another. Shared solitude makes friends of mere acquaintances, and within a very short time we had certainly progressed to that state of being.

Despite this, I still did not appreciate being woken up at the ungodly hour of half-past-seven by a gentle but quite insistent thought worming its way into the threads of my dreams, and compelling me to wakefulness despite my wishing to remain very much asleep.

I opened my eyes to find my friend withdrawing his hand from my temple, an unrepentant look twinkling in his eyes.

"I _do_ hate it when you do that," I mumbled into the pillow.

"Would you prefer I shout at you from below, pour a glass of water over you, or remove the bedclothes from your person on this simply _beastly_ frigid morning?"

I contemplating hurling a pillow at his insufferable skull but decided it was not worth the expenditure of effort, not at this hour.

I must have been 'thinking too loudly,' as Holmes so quaintly put it, for he cocked a disapproving eyebrow my direction. "I would recommend you stir yourself, Doctor, for we have a young female client in, and I quote our esteemed landlady, 'a considerable state of excitement' (1). I should much prefer to have you present at the consultation to absorb the emotional impact, if you would be so kind?"

"I've a good mind to make you deal with the poor girl yourself, Holmes," I grumbled, though I did begin to stir myself, knowing how distracting an emotional outburst would be to my friend in his consultation.

"Dear me, you are a trifle testy before your morning coffee, Doctor, which will be awaiting you below. Stir yourself, my dear fellow, and promptly." And with that, he popped out of my room as quietly as he had entered, his light, even footsteps receding on the stairs outside.

I sighed, cast one longing look back at my woolen coverlet, and began to dress for the day. I well knew Holmes's intolerance for cold, and therefore his rapid departure from my frosty chamber toward the relative comfort of the sitting-room fire did not surprise me. Within five minutes I was prepared to follow, and even before I entered the room realized I had done well to hurry, for the client on the other side of the door was considerably agitated.

I entered to find Holmes pouring coffee, over the pot of which he shot me a pointed look that plainly spoke his mind about my taking five minutes instead of three, and so made my way toward the settee, where a young lady dressed all in black sat, shivering before the cheery coal blaze.

She was trembling with part chill, part terror, I knew before even sitting next to her; though from what, I could not discern. A pair of very pretty, but haunted, eyes met mine as she looked up, and I saw a young face lined with more care than any girl that age should be forced to bear.

"You must not fear," said I, placing a hand of comfort upon her arm and attempting to draw some of the stark, rigid terror from her tumultuous emotions. "Whatever is troubling you, I assure you Mr. Holmes will be able to set it right." (2)

"Indeed," my friend agreed from just to my left, handing our client a cup of coffee with sugar.

The lady thanked him, and between the drink and my more practical (though invisible) aid soon calmed enough to tell us her story. I shall not here dwell upon the details of that account, for my readers no doubt either can recall them or will be able to easily discover them. Suffice it to say, that Holmes's eyes darkened progressively as he listened, and I could sense that he was becoming both increasingly excited and horrified at the direction of his deductions.

Finally, we had set our plans in place for the afternoon's events, and Miss Stoner departed our rooms both looking confident that Holmes would solve her problem, and indeed telling us she felt much lighter of heart than she had upon arrival. The former my friend was responsible for, the latter I was; one reason we functioned so perfectly as a team that it amazed those unacquainted with our singular talents.

When the door had closed behind the girl, I covered a yawn with the back of my notebook and debated ringing for toast. Holmes, true to his nature, waved me away absently when I mentioned breaking our fast, and only muttered about not needing to eat as much as humans did.

Personally I was yet unconvinced that any corporeal being, human or Vulcan or whatever-else-the-universe-held, could survive for days without sustenance, but I knew better than to argue with a mind such as his and so rang for Mrs. Hudson and ordered eggs and kippers for one.

The good lady had not yet brought them up when the door burst open and unceremoniously deposited a very large, and very irate, man in our doorway.

Holmes muttered something that I knew for fact was not English, and then stood to face the visitor. The man was at least six feet six inches in height, for my friend was well over six feet and still was not at eye level, with a build to match, and he carried a hunting crop in his enormous hand. Contrasting personalities, I noted detachedly (I was rather more concerned with our safety at the moment), with Holmes all thin whipcord and deceptively hidden strength of mind and body, and this man all bluster and bulk.

And, of course, my friend paid no notice to the fact that deception, malice, and pure evil were rolling off our visitor in waves as tangible to me as his wrinkled face was visible to the average human's eyesight.

"I am Holmes," my friend said pleasantly in response to the growl of greeting. "Will you not take a seat, Doctor Roylott?"

"I will do nothing of the kind. My step-daughter has been here. I have traced her. What has she been saying to you?"

Holmes yawned politely, and I began to wish I'd not left my revolver upstairs; I had no desire to spend my morning healing a concussion, for they are deucedly painful things to take upon one's self, and the damage to the brain cells muddles the entire process into hours longer than any normal healing transfer should.

"It is a little cold for the time of year," Holmes ventured next, looking dreamily at our blazing fire.

"What has she been saying to you?" Roylott fairly screamed, and I jerked my head up in warning at the sudden spike in fury that I sensed behind the words.

"But I have heard that the…crocuses promise well." (3)

I caught the small hesitation as Holmes recalled the common name for the purple blooms (he was in the annoyingly supercilious habit of reeling off the Latin, and sometimes Vulcan, names and classifications for anything that was green and remotely looked like a plant), and I fervently hoped he did not try to ad-lib his way through a discussion of British botany with the man. He had attempted that once with me, regarding astronomy of our day, and had failed dismally.

I need not have worried; Roylott preferred to do his arguing with the end of a hunting-crop thrust into my friend's face. Personally I would not have pitied the man had Holmes simply broken his wrist with one clench, but my friend was wiser than to allow such a display, and even permitted the brute to bend our fireplace poker into a U-shape before he stormed away, blissfully unaware that the man he'd just tried to browbeat could have snapped his neck in a martial arts move that would make most Japanese masters bow in awe.

When the fellow had finally departed, my friend shot me a brief quirk of a smile and vented a silent chuckle before taking up the poker and deftly shaping it back into its original rigid length.

"Deucedly handy ability, that," I observed over my pre-breakfast scone and second cup of coffee.

"It has its uses, one of which is avoiding questions from our uncannily observant landlady," he agreed, accidentally brushing a hand over my sleeve as he reached for the coffee-pot. Then he paused, and looked curiously at me. "Does it truly distress you so, that I do not eat regular meals?"

I batted his hand away, sending him a warning glare. "Is it not considered rude to eavesdrop, even if done silently inside the cranium of one's fellow-lodger?"

He inclined his head graciously. "Yes, you are quite right; my apologies, Watson. But you did give me permission, you do remember."

"Not to just pop into my head whenever you feel a curiosity for listening to me think!" I protested, though he knew as well as I that I was far more inquisitive about the process than annoyed.

Mrs. Hudson chose that exact unfortunate instant to enter with breakfast, and for a moment blinked at us both, obviously debating whether to ask for explanation or not.

Wise woman that she is, she decided against it, and only dropped the tray upon the table and exited, shaking her head.

Holmes's lips twitched in a half-smirk, which was as close as he normally would get to a full one, and appropriated my toast without another word.

* * *

(1) - (3) Passages are either direct quotes or adapted quotes from the original SPEC.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: _The Speckled Band, TrekAUverse_  
**Fandom**: Sherlock Holmes, with a Star Trek TOS twist  
**Characters**: Holmes, Watson  
**Rating**: K+  
**Warnings**: basic spoilers for Trek-related things such as Vulcans, and spoilers for various Holmes stories  
**Summary**: Takes place in my AU, where Holmes is a Vulcan and Watson a full empath (as seen in the TOS episode _The Empath_). To avoid taking up space inside the chapter in narrative, please read _Whatever Remains _to find out why Vulcan!Holmes is on Earth in the Victorian period. This is the first in a series of Canon short story rewrites, focusing on proving that Holmes really was a Vulcan and Watson an empath, so let's play the game here, people. :) First up: _The Speckled Band_, since it's the most famous of the Holmes short stories. Please note that I am NOT just copy-and-pasting Doyle in these; I'm only keeping the bare bones of the plot the same and developing an entirely new style of story. Any directly quoted material (max. 15% of the total fic) is noted. I am not Doyle, and I am not trying to write this as Doyle. Meant to be a lighthearted, somewhat tongue-in-cheek rendition but still recognizable as the Holmes and Watson we love.  
**Disclaimer**: Star Trek belongs to Paramount and Gene Roddenberry. Holmes and Watson are public domain and originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Their TrekverseAU characteristics are entirely mine, as is this not-quite-a-crossover universe. Please ask if you're wanting to play in my sandbox.  
A/N: Yes, I know it's been...11 months since I updated this? *hides* But my Holmes muse has been on extended holiday, and I'm still trying to locate the little beggar. My apologies.

* * *

Six hours later found us aboard a train to Leatherhead, whereupon Holmes deigned to share with me the details he had discovered during the morning whilst I was preparing for the journey. The stepdaughter's fortune was, obviously, the primary motive, but the telling point of the whole affair and its gravity for me was in the fact that my companion quite explicitly asked me to bring along my revolver.

I knew little, at that time, of my unique friend's planet and his people, but one thing that was utterly assured was their quite peaceful nature. Holmes himself was the gentlest of men; reacting more strongly to injustice than to physical stimulation, and seemed to know every possible self-defensive art known to man – or Vulcan – expertly, and yet his desire to do physical harm ended there, with defense rather than offense.

Initially I had been quite uneasy that my own military background, especially in the Second Afghan War, that bloodiest of all conflicts seen yet in our time, would give him cause to regard me as little more than a brutal animal, for so we must seem to one such as he. But although my friend did not approve of war nor its consequences, he also assured me that even on his planet such battles and even slaughters were necessary at times. "Acceptance of diversity is crucial to diplomacy, my dear Watson," he spoke once upon the subject, "and acceptance need not equal agreement with the actions in question. I rejoice in our differences; for what would the universe be without that infinite variety of which your Shakespeare spoke?"

That said, I had only thrice in three years seen him take up a weapon against a man with intent to do him serious bodily harm; he preferred to leave that area to my expertise, and relied on his own mental prowess (and his inhuman strength and some rather interesting self-defensive mechanisms which I shall not here detail) to thwart his opponents. For him to request the presence of a weapon intended to do harm, then, was something of a novelty, and bespoke of his perception of Roylott's true nature.

This assumption, when I voiced it after we had settled into the trap at the station that would take us to Stoke Moran, was verified readily, with a short nod of approval for my perception.

"The fellow could certainly do with some mental shielding," was his somewhat disgruntled comment as the small cart rattled over the muddy country roads. "He was broadcasting the most deplorably violent thoughts imaginable to all and sundry."

"Broadcasting?"

He blinked, grey eyes regarding me before realizing I truly was unfamiliar with the term. "Letting it be known to the entire telepathic population?"

"Ah. Which of course is composed solely of yourself."

"Indeed. But you must have picked something up from him, Doctor?"

I nodded slowly, raising a hand to shield my moustache as the cart-wheel splashed through an overlarge puddle. "Sheer malevolence," I replied, "and ruthlessness."

"Quite. A charming fellow indeed. At times I wonder, Watson, how it is that your race has survived for so long with such men as Roylott about unchecked."

"They are few in number, I should like to believe," I replied quietly. "If you are to live among us without going mad, Holmes, you must not lose faith in humanity over the worst of its specimens."

My friend's eyes glinted momentarily at me from under his cap, as a beam of spring sunlight shone merrily onto our vehicle, banishing the chilly shadows and the damp in one fell swoop. "I shall not, my dear fellow, as long as you are kind enough to balance the equation for me in the opposite direction."

I was still fumbling for an answer to that unexpected and somewhat embarrassing sentiment, when he touched my sleeve with one hand and gestured over the meadows with the other. A dilapidated, gaunt structure which speared angrily in fierce grey stonework against the chilled blue sky, it was a foreboding sight indeed despite its evident disrepair. "There, Watson – I take it that is Stoke Moran."

This last he had spoken loudly enough for our driver to hear, and the fellow nodded, though looking slightly askance at us; no doubt wondering what brought two Londoners down to this countryside in search of the ruffian who resided at the stately manor. We ignored him, and soon had sent him off back to the town, whereupon we made our way up to the house via a charming little footpath that meandered through the fields and meadows carpeted with small white and purple wildflowers.

We had barely made our way up the graveled drive when Miss Stoner herself appeared, having obviously been watching for our arrival. Holmes brushed off her effusive greeting and invitation for refreshment, and I winced, following in his imperious wake; I should need to refresh his memory at a later time on the niceties of British culture, lest he offend some less sensible client than our present lady.

Stoke Moran was a large, once-stately house, but now fallen into disrepair. The repairs which our client had spoken of were evidently being done in the sole inhabited wing of the house; the rest seemed destined to forever lie in decay and ruin. Oddly enough, though the weather was certainly permissible, if a bit damp, and while scaffolding sat ready against the stonework, no workers were in evidence, and Miss Stoner could not, apparently, account fully for their erratic work schedules, nor for the fact that there appeared very little reason for the habitable wing of the house to be under repair.

Holmes shot me a knowing look before turning his full and formidable attention to the lawn outside Miss Stoner's bedroom windows. After a moment's investigation, in which I presumed his keener vision saw more than was visible to my human sight, he sat back on his heels and requested our client remove herself to the bedroom and shutter the window.

"Have you found anything of note?" I asked, crouching down beside him as he curiously poked at a very fat earthworm which was lying in a patch of damp earth.

"This extremely obese specimen of one of your Terran insectoid species; nothing more, Doctor."

I sighed, and resolved to borrow a few books from old Alfred at the British Library for the man to brush up on his eclectic knowledge of Earth scientific terminology. The man could rattle off the chemical formula for reactions and element creations which I could not even comprehend, and yet knew nothing of practical, everyday science. "Worms are not technically insects, Holmes."

"Yes, yes, of course. But to the point, Watson, my theory – ah. Yes, thank you, Miss Stoner," he called through the window as the lady drew and barred the shutters. "…Dear me."

I knew that tone and that raised eyebrow did not bode well for his 'theory.' "What is it?"

"Apparently that my theory has its flaws, Doctor. If these windows were indeed shuttered as they are now, nothing save a transport beam could pass through them into the room beyond."

"Nothing save a _what_?"

"Ah, my dear fellow, forgive me, but we did agree to ignore my little slip-ups," was the absent, and annoying, reply, and only the re-appearance of Miss Stoner at the window prevented my expressing my frustration with this extraordinary man and his deplorable habit of giving me glimpses of a world of which I could never know the extent. "There is no more to be learned here; we shall join you inside, Miss Stoner."

"You are positively _insufferable_ at times," I muttered, following dutifully in his wake.

"I also possess Vulcan hearing, Doctor."

I sighed, for though the tone was tinged with amusement it only reinforced the knowledge of such differences as we two possessed; I might never learn his depths, nor he mine – and for how long could such two very different beings live in harmony, without chaos?

Within the chambers of the habited wing, the bedrooms were situated exactly as Miss Stoner had described them. The décor and wood-paneling looked to be dated to the very beginning of the house, and the rooms themselves were furnished with only the sparest of furniture, entirely void of those pretty things with which women liked to surround themselves. It was no wonder this woman lived in fear, and had for so long, I could sense that the moment we stepped through the door into the bedroom in question.

Holmes paused briefly as I recoiled under the sensation of terror and death, casting me a silently concerned look, but I waved him onward into the room and took a moment outside to collect myself. The chill of fear still surrounded me, however, for long after the rest of the sensations had vanished; and I soon became aware that it was Miss Stoner herself who was the focus of the emotion. I resolved to keep a better eye on the poor lady than Holmes was, for he was merely sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, his keen eyes traveling around its circumference and over every item within. The walls, the paneling, the furniture, the flooring, the rug, the articles on the tiny dressing-table, the windows – nothing escaped his keen scrutiny.

The discovery that the bell-rope was a dummy came as a surprise to me, but Holmes appeared to dismiss it as yet another unexplained mystery in this disconcerting house. However, as we moved to enter Dr. Roylott's room next door, his hand closed on my arm for a moment to hold me back after Miss Stoner had moved into the hall.

"I wish to test a theory about you, Doctor, if you will permit it," he said quietly, and completely seriously.

We had rarely discussed my odd abilities, whatever name we wished to affix to them, simply because they were much cause for unease on my part. But on occasion, I knew I might need to use them, and Holmes was always far more concerned with my consent in such matters than I was. As such I warily agreed to whatever he had in mind.

"Place your hands on the bell-rope, Doctor, if you please," he instructed, and I obeyed, cautiously. "Now. Block out my voice, this room, anything else, and focus solely on that one piece of solitary rope…focus closely on it, Watson…"

His voice faded out within a moment, and it was only a fractional second later that such a flash of devious insight barreled into my mind and out again that I jerked backward, releasing the rope with a slight gasp.

Holmes's hand steadied me, his voice eager in my ears. "Watson?"

I was still attempting to clear my head, but managed to nod in affirmation to his unspoken inquiry before finding my voice again.

"It's Roylott, Holmes. No doubt upon the matter."


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: _The Speckled Band, TrekAUverse_  
**Fandom**: Sherlock Holmes, with a Star Trek TOS twist  
**Characters**: Holmes, Watson  
**Rating**: K+  
**Warnings**: basic spoilers for Trek-related things such as Vulcans, and spoilers for various Holmes stories  
**Summary**: Takes place in my AU, where Holmes is a Vulcan and Watson a full empath (as seen in the TOS episode _The Empath_). To avoid taking up space inside the chapter in narrative, please read _Whatever Remains _to find out why Vulcan!Holmes is on Earth in the Victorian period. This is the first in a series of Canon short story rewrites, focusing on proving that Holmes really was a Vulcan and Watson an empath, so let's play the game here, people. :) First up: _The Speckled Band_, since it's the most famous of the Holmes short stories. Please note that I am NOT just copy-and-pasting Doyle in these; I'm only keeping the bare bones of the plot the same and developing an entirely new style of story. Any directly quoted material (max. 15% of the total fic) is noted. I am not Doyle, and I am not trying to write this as Doyle. Meant to be a lighthearted, somewhat tongue-in-cheek rendition but still recognizable as the Holmes and Watson we love.  
**Disclaimer**: Star Trek belongs to Paramount and Gene Roddenberry. Holmes and Watson are public domain and originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Their TrekverseAU characteristics are entirely mine, as is this not-quite-a-crossover universe. Please ask if you're wanting to play in my sandbox. 

* * *

Still stunned from the exercise, mental though it had been, Holmes's obvious glee at my success in the endeavor did not register with me until he had clapped me on the shoulder and scurried into the next room, Roylott's bedroom. I followed after a moment, shaking the cobwebs from my head and vowing with some exasperation that this was not going to be the end of the matter; whatever I had just done had obviously been an experiment of some kind, and while my friend was at heart a scientist I did not appreciate being made an experimental specimen without proper explanation and follow-up.

My annoyance must have shown upon my features, for the man threw me an apologetic look over his shoulder as he scrambled up upon a chair to look again at the ventilator between the bedrooms. Miss Stoner stood below, watching curiously, and not without some trepidation; no doubt she had not been in this room often, and it was little wonder why. Spartan and bare of any comforts save a small armchair, even to a non-empath it bespoke of a dearth of character save for that which Roylott wished to hide in the iron safe residing in the corner.

Holmes had jumped off the chair, nearly breaking his neck I might add, and was now pottering about the bookcase and safe, inspecting and disregarding what he saw with that rapidity which suggested he had already drawn an alternate theory to his original and my evidence was just the crowning touch; all this was so much credence, not new information, to the theory.

"Do you know what is in here, Miss Stoner?" he asked, tapping the safe with one long finger.

"My stepfather's business papers."

"Oh! you have seen inside, then?"

"Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers."

"There isn't a cat in it, for example?"

"No. What a strange idea!" (1)

I wholeheartedly agreed, and prayed to any deity which might be in the vicinity that the man was not about to make an utter fool of himself over his lack of Earth animal knowledge.

"Well, see here!" He indicated a small saucer of milk which sat atop the safe, and I breathed a sigh of relief; at least he knew that much.

"No, we do not keep a cat, Mr. Holmes," Miss Stoner replied, and I felt more than heard the unspoken _and if we did, we jolly well would not keep it in an iron safe_. "There is just the cheetah and the baboon."

"Ah well, a cheetah is no more than a large cat."

"But none of the animals are permitted within the house," she protested, also looking askance at the saucer. "Nor is it anywhere near enough milk for an animal of that size, even as an occasional treat."

I considered, briefly, pointing out that half the British population took milk with their tea, that there was a discarded tea cup sitting on the floor beside the bed, and that there were certainly far more strange eccentricities than putting milk in a saucer rather than taking the whole milk-pot along with one to bed at night; and then dismissed the notion. No doubt the saucer held some sinister significance to the case, which Holmes's quicker mind had deduced. Unless Roylott was in the habit of letting a full-grown cheetah squeeze through his bedroom window at night, I could see no connection between the milk and anything else in the room save the tea cup. (2)

The man in question had his nose less than two inches from the seat of the wooden chair, and was inspecting it with an air of great interest. Presently he popped back up, muttering to himself, and drew our attention to a looped dog lash which was hanging upon one end of the bed.

Odd, I thought, as there were no dogs in the house (that we knew of; that would be all we needed, for the man to have brought a pet wolf onto the premises without our client's knowledge), and obviously Holmes thought more of it as well for he remarked upon the depravity of the criminal mind based solely upon this last piece of evidence. Finally, we returned to the gardens, I no more the wiser upon the case than we had been when we came down; we had already suspected Roylott of the crime, but the method and proof were far more difficult to understand and obtain.

I do not know if it is a particular habit of his species, but when he is in the midst of the deepest contemplation Holmes is prone to aimless wandering. Some men pace; he wanders about without seeing what is before him. More than once in our sitting room he has run into the sideboard or tripped over a table leg, simply because he paces around in no discernable pattern while deep in thought. Once, and only once, in the early days, had I left the newspaper on the rug before the grate; he trod upon it while pondering a case, and slid half into the fireplace, setting one of his slippers afire before I managed to yank him from the smouldering coals. While he merely laughed it off and turned the undamaged slipper into a receptacle for the horridly strong tobacco he smokes, the event had shaken me somewhat, and as such I made it a habit to continually clean up our sitting room after the man whirlwinded through it.

After the eleventh pass around the garden, Holmes finally pulled up in front of our client and me. His face grim and pensive, he was most serious when he instructed our client.

"Your life and future will depend upon your following my instructions to the very letter, Miss Stoner; is that understood?"

Nodding, she indicated that she did; sensible girl.

"To begin with, both Dr. Watson and I must spend the night in your room."

Oh, lovely. The man did have an irrepressible habit of springing things upon me without warning, particularly when they involved uncomfortable situations in which another man might refuse to participate.

Holmes continued, instructing our client, who listened with remarkably keen attention, to confine herself to her room when her stepfather returned, to prevent her having to deal with the ruffian. We would retire to the nearby country inn (about whose sanitary conditions I had my doubts) and await the signal of a lamp in the window to inform us the coast was clear for our entry. What would transpire after that, Holmes would not verbally conjecture, and I was quite in the dark.

"Can you not give me any indication as to what killed my poor Julia?" Miss Stoner all but pleaded, when Holmes would divulge no further information. "Was it as I thought, and she died of terror at something which happened in that room?"

"Nothing so other-worldly, I am afraid, Miss Stoner," Holmes replied gravely. "Something far more tangible than that."

For that reassurance, dismal though it was, I was immensely grateful, and said so as we made our way to the dubiously-named Crown Inn. Had the cause of death been fear (and while emotions could kill, those instances were exceedingly rare), I should not have much like to remain in that room overnight. Who knew what emotive ghosts might appear, or what circumstances might be produced.

"Yes, I believe I do owe you a bit of apology for using your peculiar gift without prior consent, Doctor," Holmes mused, somewhat abashedly, as we entered the inn gates. "I had forgotten how personal a thing it must be for you; anything more poignant would be quite overwhelming."

I did not much enjoy the word _peculiar_, when applied to something over which I held no control, but then I recalled that Holmes is – or at least was, in years past – a scientist, and most likely meant it in the strictest sense of the word: simply unusual, or special to one person.

"Consent is not necessary; you know I am happy to help if I may be of any use," I replied.

"Just the same, it is a discourtesy I shall endeavor to not repeat. Now, let us see if this charming rural specimen can procure us a passable room."

Another peculiarity of my friend was his lack of forethought in procuring lodgings; this had happened upon more than one occasion, and I gathered from his disgruntled mutterings that on his former world money had never been a consideration for him. As it stood now, I ended up being forced to empty my pocketbook for a bedroom and tiny sitting room in which we would most likely never again set foot after darkness fell tonight. And yet, the rooms were peaceful, and I welcomed the chance for a quiet meal and conversation downstairs after the events of the day.

Oddly enough, it was the topic of diet which popped up during the course of our meal, and I learned to my surprise that Holmes was originally a vegetarian.

"Why, may I ask?" I inquired curiously, for he had never given me reason to suspect so in the past.

"It is a belief of my people, Doctor, that all life is sacred, and that living beings should not be sacrificed for any purpose unless there is no alternative available," he responded, taking no offense at my inquisitiveness.

"And you no longer are so, because of the need to fit in with society? Surely you could still remain a vegetarian and not attract overmuch attention?"

"I could, but there do not exist the proper complex proteins in your Terran vegetables which would make it possible for my physiology to remain in good health, Doctor," he explained, pointedly holding up an unappetizing specimen of watery broccoli. "I have been forced to adapt due to a lack of nutrients and proteins which my alien physiology requires, which were readily available on my own planet."

I shifted uneasily at the word _alien_, for no matter how many times I heard it the term still caused me unease, and felt a flash of pity for the man stranded here for the rest of his long life. "Is it…unpleasant, for you?" I asked hesitantly.

Holmes shrugged. "Eating is neither pleasant nor unpleasant; it is simply a necessary part of subsistence. Your society in general must consume animal flesh as part of healthy nutrition, and the animals are not killed for less necessary reasons. But you see, Doctor, why I rarely am overexcited regarding a meal, and even find no trouble going without for any length of time."

"Yes, I cannot see you becoming overexcited about very many things," I replied dryly, nudging the platter of vegetables closer his direction.

Holmes paused, and regarded me curiously, a strange light in his grey eyes. "You see me as withdrawn, then? Distant, even cold?"

Somewhat surprised at the question, I hesitated a moment to consider. But Holmes always preferred frankness to tact, and I had learned from the master of the art. "By human standards, yes," I said matter-of-factly. "Just a bit."

He gave me his peculiar kind of smile, the sort that started in the eyes and only barely tugged at the corners of his mouth, and returned to his meal without another word, leaving me attempting to puzzle out what that little exchange had been about.

We had just finished the meal and were good-naturedly arguing about the wisdom of ordering dessert (why the man has such an aversion to anything containing chocolate, I am unsure of), when through the dusk we saw a trap moving down the lane, carrying the hulking figure of Dr. Grimesby Roylott. After a small delay at the gates, the trap continued on to the house, which was beginning to be lit by twinkling lamplight as darkness fell.

And it was then that our conversation took a most serious turn.

"Watson, I must admit I have some scruples about taking you tonight," he said, lighting up his pipe with what to me appeared to be a slightly nervous hand. "This…this is far more dangerous a man – and his instruments far more deadly – than we have previously encountered. I do not like it."

"Can I be of assistance, or will I simply hinder your investigation?"

"Quite the contrary; your presence might be invaluable."

"Then I shall certainly come. (3) But you have obviously already formed a theory. I confess I can see nothing which would suggest how Roylott might have murdered his step-daughter."

"Technically, no; there you are correct. But the instrument of murder is simply that – an instrument, wielded by a man. And in that sense, Roylott did murder Julia Stoner."

"The ventilator seemed to be your focus; a poison, administered through the opening, perhaps?" I hazarded, for I could not conceive of any other way the woman might have met her death.

"That was my first thought, Doctor, but in your time there exists no such airborne toxin which could be passed through a ventilation shaft and leave no trace of such in the victim's body – can you think of one?"

"No," I admitted. "The coroner would certainly have remarked upon any discolouration or excessive rigor."

"And therein lies the problem." Holmes's eyes grew somber. "Either the man is using something far more exotic, and passing it through that ventilation…or else there is a decidedly non-Terran explanation, which I am loathe to both encounter and attempt to explain to the local constabulary. Besides which, Mycroft would most likely _explode_ if I were to even make the attempt. No, Doctor, I believe I am in possession of a theory which will cover the facts as we know them, and it is my hope that it will turn out to be decidedly domestic, if a bit out of the ordinary."

"It is certainly a horrible place, and a horrible thought, what might go on behind those walls tonight but for your intervention."

"Horrible enough," he agreed. "When a doctor goes wrong, he is the worst of criminals. He has nerve, knowledge, opportunity, and the genius to use all for dark purposes."

"…Thank you, I think."

I heard a small huff of what passed for laughter from him. "It was a compliment, Doctor. I should not like to ever be upon opposing sides against you; you are quite a formidable human yourself."

Darkness had fallen as we sat talking, and the lights around us had begun to be extinguished one by one, leaving us in only a glow from our single lamp.

"All this mystery," said I, as I closed my notes of the afternoon, "all this horror, for a step-daughter's inheritance. It is ghastly to think a man would turn to such a thing over a sum of money."

"The human race is a ghastly series of histories, Doctor," was Holmes's morose reply, coming out of the half-darkness. "Your heritage is steeped in blood and war, crime and criminals, dark ages and ages of enlightenment – and much of that was over nothing more complex than money and property."

"When you put it that way, it does sound a bit disgraceful," I murmured.

"And yet it is necessary, for a society to grow and develop."

"Do you speak from personal experience?"

A brief snort from out of the darkness. "Certainly not; it is for that reason my people decided long ago the tenets by which they would form a society. We have not had war or anything of its kind for centuries."

Stunned, I was about to inquire further on that intriguing tidbit of information on my friend's extraordinary past when a sudden bright light flared into existence before us.

"That would be our signal, Doctor. Have you your firearm?"

A peculiar choice of words, but then again it was simply another indication that English was not his native language.

"Here. I'll just tell the landlord we are going out for a late visit and may spend the night there, shall I?"

"What business is it of his?" Holmes gestured impatiently, already halfway out the veranda doors.

"If something does happen in that house tonight, do you really want to have to explain to the local constable why we both sneaked out of here a few hours before it happened?"

"Ah."

"Lesson Three for the day in human relations, my dear fellow," I sighed, disposing of the spent match he had left upon the tablecloth. "People gossip, incessantly, especially in small hamlets such as this one where nothing interesting ever happens."

"Disgracefully garrulous race, you humans."

"Intolerably snobbish, you Vulcans."

* * *

(1), (3) Dialogue either directly quoted or basically paraphrased from the text of SPEC; my additions are obvious

(2) We all know Doyle's literary _faux pas_ regarding the strange milk-drinking snake. While I toyed briefly with the idea of it being a lactose-craving alien reptile, I decided this series is crackish enough without turning it into Victorian Torchwood. Hence this (equally ridiculous) explanation for the milk saucer.

(misc) I am aware that I'm leaving all sorts of loose ends and unanswered questions about Holmes and just how Vulcan he is. Rest assured, they will all be answered at some point in the series; I just have to write the rest of it. :)


End file.
